The Lost Village(61)

“We’ll be careful,” I say. “If she’s up there she might be hiding.”

June 23, 1959

Margareta,

I don’t understand why you sounded so angry in your last letter? It hurt me to read it, but I can see that what I wrote must have been hard for you to hear, too. It isn’t always easy to open your eyes to new truths, especially when you’re so tied to the old. That’s what Pastor Mattias says. Here in Silvertj?rn it hasn’t been easy to open people’s eyes to God’s light, but when it does happen—ah! I’ll leave you to experience that for yourself. I’m sure you will.

It’s like a new world, Margareta; it feels like I was blind my entire life, running around worrying about petty, unimportant things, feeling small and scared and powerless, but Pastor Mattias has shown me the true way. I know you have felt the same! When you were new to Stockholm and no one wanted to talk to you, when they laughed at your clothes and the way you spoke, didn’t you feel lonely then? You said it like a joke, but I could tell it made you sad! And though you claim to be happy and content now, that old feeling will never leave you, Margareta. It’s there because you’ve distanced yourself from God.

But it isn’t your fault! It’s Mother and Father’s fault. You say that you felt the same way at my age, and that it’ll pass, but have you ever considered that you might have disliked them because they’re bad parents? They haven’t taught us about God. They’ve never truly cared about us, Margareta! Only as pairs of helping hands, no more. That isn’t true love. True love is boundless, unconditional. It is the sharing of both body and soul, nothing withheld. When you live in love, you learn to never say no.

But how many times has Mother said no to you and me? Thousands! Because she has never seen us—not you, nor me, nor even Father. Why do you think he was driven to the bottle? Because he slumped into godless depths, and because she wasn’t there for him.

Perhaps you would understand had you seen it, Margareta. I know you remember Mother as a good person, for you are a good person yourself. But you haven’t seen her now! All she does is scold Father and try to undermine the church. She hardly wants me to go there anymore. How can you call her a pious person when she doesn’t even want me to visit the house of God?

You’ll see. When you come here.

Pastor Mattias has explained it all. He’s helped me to see why I always felt so lonely. He’s given me answers I never even knew I wanted!

You may not believe what I’m saying about Birgitta, but you will understand once you hear Pastor Mattias. He told me that pure, blessed people are more sensitive to evil than others. That’s why I’ve always felt so uncomfortable around Birgitta, for I’ve sensed the darkness within her. Pastor Mattias says that the demon inside Birgitta may be what has corrupted Mother. But he says he will try to save Birgitta nonetheless—and Mother, too.

Now do you see what a good man he is? That he lives his life for God? That’s how much he is willing to sacrifice to save the rest of us. He has shown us the way. He is our light in the darkness.

Just come home, Margareta. I would dearly love to show you our new church. Then you will see. You will understand it all.

Aina.





NOW



The air upstairs is still. I’m in a small hallway, barely more than a landing, that leads to two doors. Both are shut.

I hear the creak of Robert’s steps behind me and turn around, nervous that he’ll go straight through them. He may be slim, but he’s still heavier than me.

At the top of the stairs is a small window, with four panes that let the dusky light inside. Dust particles are dancing around in the air. I’m uncomfortably aware that we don’t have our respirator masks, but push the thought from my mind. Asbestos and black mold will have to be another day’s concern.

Robert takes the last step, and gives a curt nod when he reaches the landing. I take a deep breath, hold it, step forward, and open the door on the right.

“Tone?” I say quietly as I scan the room.

It looks like a sweet girls’ room from a classic film. It’s sparingly furnished, with two beds, each less than three feet wide. Grandma must have shared the room with Aina before moving south.

The wallpaper has yellowed, and it’s impossible to tell what color it must have once been. The pattern, however, is still clear: plump little rosebuds on supple vines.

There isn’t much else in the room: a bookshelf and a desk, and a ceramic flowerpot full of dried earth on the windowsill. The window is one of the few that has simply cracked, rather than shattered completely. Through it the sun sinks over the forest in the distance. Its flame-red light makes the cracks in the glass gleam.

I take a few steps into the room and look around. Empty as it seems, it still feels like there’s a presence in there. The short, sweaty hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end, and the skin on my exposed wrists feels more sensitive than normal.

“Tone?” I say again.

She isn’t here. There’s no one here.

I gulp, then quickly kneel down next to one of the beds and look underneath. A split-second vision of a piercing gray eye staring out at me from the darkness makes my heart skip a beat, but in reality there’s nothing under either this or the other bed.

“No one here,” I say, hushed, to Robert.